


A Knight of the Possible Future

by llamaesque



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Yes_Jaime is really dead, but I'm still going to give Brienne what she deserves_damnit, i know it sucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 08:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llamaesque/pseuds/llamaesque
Summary: What little had been feminine and soft about Brienne was gone now, replaced by hard plains of muscle overlaying newly visible ridges of bone. It was no wonder. At the end of every long day—and they were all long days, with the rebuilding of King’s Landing in full swing—she would find herself in the training yard. There she stayed, running drill after drill, for however long it took for true, blinding exhaustion to set in, until she dripped with sweat and barely had the strength left to sheathe her sword. Then she could finally sleep, almost undisturbed.





	A Knight of the Possible Future

What little had been feminine and soft about Brienne was gone now, replaced by hard plains of muscle overlaying newly visible ridges of bone. It was no wonder. At the end of every long day—and they were all long days, with the rebuilding of King’s Landing in full swing—she would find herself in the training yard. There she stayed, running drill after drill, for however long it took for true, blinding exhaustion to set in, until she dripped with sweat and barely had the strength left to sheathe her sword. Then she could finally sleep, almost undisturbed.

Nights when she stayed away, the darkness of her room was haunted by terrible visions. She would see the vulnerable King, dead and bleeding, because she had failed him. There would be Sansa, lost to dragon’s fire when Brienne was too far away to be of any help. And on the worst nights, Jaime would be in her dreams. Just as in life, he was dazzlingly beautiful when he came to Brienne in her sleep. It was such a relief to see him that she could hardly look way, even as she watched him suffer and die, always just out of her reach. Every death she had ever seen or imagined was visited on Jaime during those restless nights. He was stabbed and poisoned and crushed, eaten by a bear and torn limb from limb by wolves. Sometimes his body was taken over by whatever force had driven the white walkers that they had once killed side by side. And no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, Brienne could never save Jaime in her dreams. Just as in life.

The first few evenings Brienne spent in the growing twilight of the practice field, an audience had gathered. People were hungry for some novelty that didn’t involve charred bodies or fallen stone towers, and Brienne gave them a show indeed. Even in the haze of her exertion, she could hear them marveling at her size, her brutality.

“Look at that,” one rough-faced man had said a few weeks ago, loud, obviously intending for Brienne to hear him. “There’s more of the mad dog in that one than the maid.” She continued her drilling, eyes resolutely ahead. Her sword whipped through the chill, early winter air with a satisfying woosh. “See, she’s even frothing at the mouth. Somebody better put that dog down.”

Brienne wasn’t proud of what happened next, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing: It had banished the gawking crowd from that night on. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she had closed the hundred feet between herself and the man. Even after what he had said, he still had the audacity to look shocked to find a perilously sharp blade pressed against his neck, a thin trickle of blood winding its way down to his worn collar. Her blade only nicked his skin, leaving a cut barely worse than what he might have suffered when removing his beard. But Brienne could nonetheless see a dark, liquid stain spreading over the front of the man’s breeches.

“I suggest you find your bed,” she said to him, offhanded and icy cool. “The night is dangerous for the likes of you.”

Brienne had stalked away, and after that she was left alone on the practice field. Every night, she continued to work herself into a stupor of aching muscles and legs that shook so badly she had to sit at the edge of the field to rest before journeying back to her quarters.

That’s what Brienne was doing when she met him. She leaned backward on a bench, her eyes closed and her legs stretched out before her, enjoying the nighttime breeze lifting the sweat from her skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” He’d said, standing quiet by her side.

At first, Brienne thought she’d imagined his voice. The words seemed unlikely, and her solitude had been so complete that evening that she’d begun to feel like the last living creature in the city. But there he was, a soft-looking youth with sandy-colored hair that fell in boyish curls almost to his shoulders.

Brienne was dismayed—what kind of knight allowed herself to be crept up on by a stranger, startled and unawares with her sword out of hand? Her irritation was evident in her brusque response. “Excuse me?”

“I work up there,” he gestured up toward one of the still-standing towers that ringed the practice ground. “I watch you from the library window every night when I take breaks. You and your blade are a beautiful sight."

“Beautiful?” An unladylike snort. “I think not.”

“The world is full of different kinds of beauty, even if some may be too blind to see them. And isn’t the best kind of beauty what is useful? Holy books that teach people to be kind, high walls to keep the innocent safe, fields of wheat to feed us through winter. You, here, swirling unbeatable through the night with your sword glimmering in the moonlight before you.”

Brienne remained silent. What was there to say to that? He was obviously a madman.

Most people would have felt compelled to fill the silence that settled awkwardly between them. But Brienne’s companion just stood, looking contemplatively up at the sky, where clouds scuttled past the full moon.

Finally, after minutes had passed. “May I sit?”

She could have returned to her rooms then. But Brienne found herself curious about the kind of man who could see her anger, her fear, as something beautiful. She nodded assent, sliding to one side of the bench.

He sat next to her, closer than she would have wished. After another long silence, he spoke again. His voice was soft and warm, and Brienne somehow got the feeling that he was more accustomed to listening than to talking. “I’m Quintus Lannister, and you’re Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

“You are _who?”_ Brienne turned to look at him, disbelief like a hot breath at the back of her neck. How many Lannisters were there in the world? Any why must all of them torture her?

“Quintus Lannister, although mostly I’m just called Quinn. Quintus is rather grand for me, I find.”

"Are you sure you’re a Lannister, talking like that?"

"I’m the least of the least Lannisters—fifth son of a fifth son of a fifth son of the least significant branch of the family tree. So perhaps I’ve escaped the family taste for what’s grand but pointless. Or even worse, what’s grand but deadly."

He was nothing like the Lannisters she knew. He had none of the special beauty that had made Jaime and Cersei feel like something more than human, like storybook characters made flesh. He also had none of the cutting, disdainful wit that Tyrion brought to every interaction. Instead, Quintus—Quinn—seemed like just another man, common and forgettable.

“Well, that clarifies things. You’re certainly no Lannister.”

He laughed, a little rueful. “When the name was wreathed with glory, it was nothing to me. I grew up in a little holdfast far from the king’s road and only ever met a famous Lannister once. But now that _Lannister_ means traitor, my name seems to be the most important thing about me. It brings me here at this moment, at the command of the king.”

Brienne could feel the warmth of his body radiating off him. She slid further away on the bench. “King Bran summoned you?”

“I was called away from my studies at the citadel more than two months ago.” He sounded wistful when he mentioned his past—wistful, not outraged or annoyed or livid, or any of the other things another kind of man might have been at such an imposition. “I spend most of my time organizing the new library, preserving what books survived in the castle despite the dragonsfire.” He looked at her, his lips curled in a half smile, his eyes green even in the dark. “I suppose I could pretend my skills are so essential that I’m needed, but in truth I’m in King’s Landing to swear loyalty. A lesser King would have put me to the sword without giving me the chance.”

“And how is it you know who I am?” Brienne asked, bracing herself for the worst. What did Lannisters talk about on nights around the fireside?

“Do you imagine that there’s anyone in the six kingdoms who doesn’t know of you?” His tone wasn’t harsh or mocking—just surprised. “You’re the first woman knight, the captain of the new king’s guard, and a member of the small council. You’re the stuff of legend.”

With that, she arose.

“Good night, Quintus.”

Brienne could feel Quinn’s eyes on her as she walked away, noting with satisfaction that her legs no longer shook from the evening’s exertions.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Brienne fought her way through a small council meeting using her wits instead of her sword. She always found that to be the most exhausting kind of battle, but she was nonetheless proud of the outcome—with her words she had earned important measures to make the citizens of King’s Landing safer on their streets.

As the meeting came to a close and the councilors were gathering their things to leave, King Bran gestured for them to remain seated. Even now, Brienne never felt comfortable around Bran. It was impossible to tell what happened in his head, or what he knew of you. He often said things that would freeze her in her tracks, making use of some word or phrase from her past that he should not have known. It was a reminder that nothing was safe from the three-eyed raven, no matter how private you might think it to be.

“I propose to make a change to the charter of the King’s guard, the Night’s Watch, and the order of Maesters,” Bran said from his wheeled chair at the head of the table, his voice and eyes otherworldly. “It’s time that we allow these people, who give so much to the citizens of the six kingdoms, to marry and have families of their own.”

The King’s words were greeted with confused glances and uncertain shuffling. This was Bran’s way. He would make some strange, almost unbelievable proclamation, and then sit silent while the small council tried to work out his reasoning. There was no explanation with King Bran the Broken—just curious, unfailing belief in what only he could see.

The response of at least one councillor was predictable. With a barking laugh, Bronn spoke. “The more fucking the better, I always thought.”

As was often the case, Brienne found herself agreeing with Davos. “But the tradition of celibacy for those who follow these callings is long. They can do their jobs better because they’re married to the kingdom.”

Brienne watched the other councillors as they considered Bran’s proposal, feeling distant from this issue that could so change the lives of her guardsmen.

Tyrion was next to speak. "Years of war have reduced the population. We can barely work the fields with the people who are left. And with so many lost to battle, our numbers will rebound only slowly. There aren’t enough men left to sire all the children we would need, but allowing these marriages might speed the process.”

“Imagine, a kingdom full of single women,” Bronn interjected with a glint in his eye, leaning his chair back to balance on two legs. “They’d be begging for it on the streets.”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. She had long been used to this kind of talk, but she didn’t look forward to being asked to weigh in on the issue of marriage herself. And no doubt this particular debate would rage on forever, while she had planned a long afternoon of training the guard.

“Traditions are ours to change,” Bran said with finality. “We don’t need to pass this decree right now. But soon. It will be needed soon.”

 

* * *

 

When the meeting finally broke up, Brienne walked to the training ground with Pod. All around them, people bustled through the castle hallways. For some stretches, it was possible to forget what had happened to the city. Tapestries hung on solid walls, and the floors beneath their feet were even and steady. But then they would turn a corner and the lie would be exposed: They saw roofless rooms, spaces newly exposed to the stark blue sky overhead, and stairs that ended midway among piles of rubble. Worst of all were the patches of dark, stained stone they passed, where blood had recently pooled as someone lay dying.

Setting out the practice dummies in the training yard, Brienne finally asked Pod what she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since the previous night. “Do you think people know who I am? Smallfolk, I mean?”

“You’re the subject of the most popular songs these days.” Pod laughed, quirking an eyebrow in her direction. “Bran may be king because Lord Tyrion thought he had the best story, but most of the minstrels seem to disagree. They say the tale of Ser Brienne turns even the hoariest old warriors starry-eyed—it’s full of adventure, danger, longing, and tragic love.”

Pod blanched and fell silent, clearly unsure of how she would react to his summation of her life history. They’d never really discussed what happened at Winterfell, or what it meant to her. But apparently he knew—apparently _everyone_ knew.

She cleared her throat, focusing on setting the straw dummies at even intervals.

“Would you marry, if you could?”

When Brienne had first met Pod, she thought him a silly young man, soft from city life and poorly suited to charting a destiny of his own. But now he was her almost constant companion, an able lieutenant and a trusted friend. The fact that he would ask this of her made Brienne unaccountably sad. She often felt like an alien being, a creature too strange to be comprehensible to those around her. But that even Pod couldn’t understand the significance of his question was a blow as palpable as a sword strike.

For one excruciatingly brief period in her life, Brienne might have thought of marriage as something to be desired. Then, there was someone she could trust to take her as she was—sword, breeches, close-cropped hair and all. He would have asked her to be nothing more or less than what she was. But now? He was gone, and she was back where she started.

“For you, marriage might be something nice—a warm body to come home to, children to dandle on your knee.” Brienne could hear her own voice trembling, part with suppressed anger, part with sadness. “But for me, for any woman, it’s a trap. It’s slavery to the whims of a man, and the surrender of one’s own will and reason. My freedom from marriage is a gift I would not easily surrender. I will be wife to no one.”

Pod’s eyes on her, thoughtful. “The way things have often been isn’t the only way they could ever be. And King Bran spoke of changing traditions for the guard, for the watch. Why couldn’t we find a way to change traditions for women as well?”

Brienne could think of only one response to this. “My sweet summer child, open the armory before the rest of the guard arrives.”


End file.
